Her first attempted speech lost in that outburst of acclaim, the actress stood before them bowing and smiling, the red blood surging into her unrouged cheeks, her dark eyes flashing like two diamonds.

Again and again the house rose to her, the noise of greeting was deafening, and a perfect avalanche of flowers covered the stage.

From boxes, from parquet, from crowded balcony, from top-most gallery the enthusiastic outburst came, spontaneous, ever growing in volume of sound, apparently never ending.
She looked out upon them almost appealingly, her hands outstretched in greeting, her eyes filling with tears.

Slowly, as if drawn toward them by some impulse of gratitude, she came down to the footlights, and stood there bowing to left and right, the deep swelling of her bosom evidencing her agitation.
As though some sudden remembrance had occurred to her in the midst of that turmoil, of what all this must mean to others, to those of her own blood, she turned to glance lovingly toward that box in which they sat.
Instantly she went white, her hands pressing her breast, her round throat swelling as though the effort of breathing choked her.

Possibly out in front they thought it acting, perhaps a sudden nervous collapse, for as she half reeled backward to the support of a bench, the clamor died away into dull murmur.